Chapter 12 (Part 02)

The lower level of the club was a study in sophisticated excess—dimmer lighting that flattered everyone it touched, quieter music that actually allowed for conversation, less chaotic energy that felt like a balm after the sensory assault upstairs. Plush velvet couches in curved nooks created intimate spaces, low glass tables reflected the warm glow of strategically placed candles, and long flowing curtains created soft shadows that provided the illusion of privacy. It smelled faintly of expensive champagne and rich velvet, of money and secrets and whispered confessions.

The clientele down here was different too—older, more refined, the kind of people who could afford bottle service and private booths and the privilege of being seen in the right places with the right people. Conversations were conducted in lower voices, deals were struck over crystal glasses, and everyone moved with the careful precision of those accustomed to having their every action scrutinized and analyzed.

Zayn and I found a booth near the edge of the space, positioned for optimal people-watching but far enough from the main thoroughfare to provide some semblance of privacy. The curved banquette was upholstered in deep burgundy leather that gleamed in the low light, and the table was already set with heavy crystal glasses and linen napkins that spoke of understated luxury.

He ordered us two drinks—something with top-shelf vodka for me, a craft whiskey for himself—while I tried to steady the erratic thud of my pulse. The bartender was efficient and discreet, delivering our drinks with a professional smile before melting back into the shadows, leaving us alone in our little cocoon of privacy.

"You sure you're alright?" Zayn asked gently as he slid a drink across the table toward me, his fingers brushing mine briefly in the transfer. The touch was warm, pleasant, uncomplicated—everything I should want from a man's attention.

"I'm fine." The lie came easily, practiced from years of maintaining professional composure even when my personal life felt like it was spinning out of control.

I sighed, taking a sip of my drink and welcoming the burn of alcohol against my throat. "Okay, I'm slightly overwhelmed."

His smile was understanding, kind in a way that made my chest tighten with something that might have been guilt. "You're doing great for someone who claims to hate clubs."

"I never said hate. I said... unfamiliar." And it was true—this world of pounding music and flowing alcohol and bodies pressed together in the dark was foreign to me, as removed from my usual routine as a foreign country. I was more comfortable with quiet dinners and museum exhibitions, with conversations that didn't require shouting over bass lines and lighting that actually allowed you to see the person you were talking to.

Zayn leaned forward on his elbows, studying my face with an intensity that was flattering rather than unsettling. "Is this about that guy who was staring at you?"

The question hit me like a splash of cold water, and I felt my carefully constructed composure waver. "What?"

He chuckled, but there was no mockery in the sound—just gentle amusement at what he clearly saw as my obliviousness. "You don't notice it, do you?"

"Notice what?" My voice came out higher than intended, betraying the anxiety I was trying so hard to hide.

"That you attract attention like it's gravity." His eyes were warm as they met mine across the small table, and I could see genuine admiration there, uncomplicated and honest. "Men look at you, women look at you—hell, everyone looks at you. You have this quality, this presence that just... draws people in."

I rolled my eyes, deflecting with humor because the alternative was examining too closely why his words made me think of another pair of eyes, darker and more dangerous, that had been tracking my every movement. "That's a stretch."

"No, really," he insisted, leaning closer with the earnestness of someone trying to make an important point. "That guy upstairs? The one in the expensive suit? He hasn't taken his eyes off you. I thought maybe you knew each other, the way he was watching you."

I sipped my drink again, longer this time, ignoring the sting in my throat that had less to do with alcohol and everything to do with the accuracy of Zayn's observation. Of course he'd noticed. How could he not, when Killian's attention had been so focused, so intense that it was practically visible?

"Do you know him?"

The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn't ready to examine. How did I explain that yes, I knew him, but not in any way that made sense? That he was my boss but also something more, something I couldn't define or understand or escape from even when I was trying to have a normal evening with a normal man who wanted nothing more complicated than good conversation and maybe a goodnight kiss?

"Something like that." It was the most honest answer I could give without opening a door I wasn't ready to walk through.

Zayn studied me for a long moment, clearly recognizing that there was more to the story but too polite to press for details I wasn't willing to share. It was one of the things I liked about him—his ability to read social cues, to know when to push and when to let things lie.

"You want to talk about it?"

"No." The word came out more sharply than I'd intended, and I softened it with what I hoped was an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I just... it's complicated."

"You want to go back upstairs?" His suggestion was gentle, without pressure, giving me an out if I needed one.

But the thought of returning to that upper level, of being under that watchful gaze again, made my stomach clench with an anxiety I couldn't quite name. I wasn't ready to face whatever was waiting for me up there, wasn't prepared for another silent confrontation with eyes that saw too much and demanded answers I didn't have.

"Actually..." I set my drink down and forced a smile that felt more natural this time. "Do you mind if I use the restroom first? I'll be right back."

He nodded easily, his expression understanding. "Go ahead. I'll be here."

I stood carefully, hyperaware of how the movement made my dress shift against my thighs, how my heels clicked against the polished floor as I made my way across the lounge. A few heads turned as I passed—men in expensive suits pausing mid-conversation, women glancing up from their martinis with expressions that ranged from curious to envious—but their attention felt different from the weight I'd been carrying all evening. Lighter. Less consequential.

I weaved my way down a hallway lined with abstract art and mood lighting, following discreet signs toward the restrooms. The corridor was quieter than the main lounge, insulated from the music and conversation by thick walls and careful design. My footsteps echoed softly in the space, and I found myself slowing, reluctant to reach my destination because it would mean being alone with my thoughts.

I could still feel it.

That pressure against my skin.

That sense of being watched, evaluated, claimed by a gaze I couldn't escape even when the owner of those eyes was floors away.

That man.

Killian Vale.

Why the hell was he even here? This didn't seem like his scene at all. He was the type who attended gallery openings and charity galas, events where networking was expected and every conversation served a purpose. I could picture him at those functions—impeccably dressed, devastatingly charming when it suited his needs, able to command a room without raising his voice or making a single unnecessary gesture.

But a club? A place where people came to lose themselves in music and alcohol and the anonymity of darkness? He didn't seem like the type to go clubbing on Saturday nights. He seemed like the type to quietly destroy competition from a leather chair in a high-rise while sipping neat scotch and listening to classical music, making decisions that could alter the course of entire companies with the same casual ease most people used to choose what to have for breakfast.

And yet, there he was.

Watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle with awareness.

Like I'd wandered somewhere I wasn't allowed, crossed a line I hadn't known existed.